Memories, Dreams, and Everything in Between
by Britt Asterfield
Summary: A collection of short stories revolving around the lovely cast of Death Note. Topics based on the original 100 Theme Challenge for Writers. Genres vary. Non-slash - No major OCs - All characters will be in one story or another. Updated biweekly. Beta-d by Lawliet Veneziano.
1. Shades of Grey

**Author's Note: **Below is a guide that will aide you on your journey through this fic. Please feel free to skip around. If you wish to wait for a certain theme, I suggest you alert this story.

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**TABLE OF CONTENTS**

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1. Introduction  
2. Complicated  
3. Making History  
4. Rivalry  
5. Unbreakable  
6. Obsession  
7. Eternity  
8. Gateway  
9. Death  
10. Opportunities  
11. 33%  
12. Dead Wrong  
13. Running Away  
14. Judgement  
15. Seeking Solace  
16. Excuses  
17. Vengeance  
18. Love  
19. Tears  
**20. My Inspiration **_(Chapter 4)_  
21. Never Again  
22. Online  
23. Failure  
24. Rebirth  
25. Breaking Away  
26. Forever and a day  
**27. Lost and Found **_(Chapter 5)_  
28. Light  
29. Dark  
30. Faith  
31. Colours  
32. Exploration  
33. Seeing Red  
**34. Shades of Grey** _(Chapter 1)_  
35. Forgotten  
**36. Dreamer** _(Chapter 6)_  
37. Mist  
38. Burning  
39. Out of Time  
40. Knowing How  
41. Fork in the road  
42. Start  
43. Nature's Fury  
44. At Peace  
45. Heart Song  
46. Reflection  
47. Perfection  
48. Everyday Magic  
49. Umbrella  
50. Party  
**51. Troubling Thoughts** _(Chapter 3)_  
52. Stirring of the Wind  
53. Future  
54. Health and Healing  
55. Separation  
56. Everything For You  
57. Slow Down  
58. Heartfelt Apology  
59. Challenged  
60. Exhaustion  
61. Accuracy  
62. Irregular Orbit  
63. Cold Embrace  
64. Frost  
65. A Moment in Time  
**66. Dangerous Territory **_(Chapter 2)_  
67. Boundaries  
68. Unsettling Revelations  
69. Shattered  
70. Bitter Silence  
71. The True You  
72. Pretence  
73. Patience  
74. Midnight  
75. Shadows  
76. Summer Haze  
77. Memories  
78. Change in the Weather  
79. Illogical  
80. Only Human  
81. A Place to Belong  
82. Advantage  
83. Breakfast  
84. Echoes  
85. Falling  
86. Picking up the Pieces  
87. Gunshot  
88. Possession  
89. Twilight  
90. Nowhere and Nothing  
91. Answers  
92. Innocence  
93. Simplicity  
94. Reality  
95. Acceptance  
96. Lesson  
97. Enthusiasm  
98. Game  
99. Friendship  
100. Endings

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And now, the show can begin. Start shoveling that popcorn into your mouth! And enjoy!

**Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note. Nor do I actually own a Death Note...**

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34. Shades of Grey

(Genre: Supernatural)

_Kira!_

The pale hand shot out from a thick abyss, its fingers set like daggers. And every fingernail—God, Light wasn't surprised if they could shred flesh. The brunet gulped, eyes wide in terror: _His _flesh, they could shred _his _flesh. The hand edged nearer, closing the small between him and that _thing_. Currently, Light deduced it was some sort of ghoul, a twisted creature who stole rotting bodies from coffins, slowly digesting them in deep burrows—except, Light realized with horror, this one didn't want a rotting body; it hungered for the caviar of its diet: the live, blood-spilling human.

Air shot in and out of his nostrils as he stifled a scream. _No, no, no, no, NO! _How the hell was this happening to him? He was _Light Yagami_. Why should he piss his pants for some ghoul if he could look at a Shinigami and not even bat an eye? And this thing wasn't even comparable to Ryuk on the Ugly Scale. Just as he thought he was gaining some ground on his sanity, its fingernails brushed his cheek, making the brunet's skin crawl. Subconsciously, Light began emitting squeamish moans through his lips. He sounded like a child who had discovered Pennywise sheepishly hiding underneath his kitchen sink.

_Sh, I'm not going to hurt you._

Light's eyes widen in terror. Its lips weren't _moving_.

I_ just wanna talk. _Slowly,it lowered its hand to its side, a pair of unblinking eyes handing their undivided attention to him.

Light's brow creased. Now that most of his initial fear was absent, he could clearly see that this thing wasn't a ghoul at all. It was a young woman wearing, of all things, an orange jumpsuit.

His heart skipped a beat. _An orange jumpsuit? _Oh, this was going to be interesting. For the better half of the last three years, Light sat at a desk, killing orange-jumpsuit-people with fluid pen strokes. He hid behind the Notebook as a means for power. But, at the moment, the brunet wondered if it would have been more fun doing the deed face-to-face. To not be bound by the standards of anonymity. To freely bathe in the sheer joy of those who pollute the world suffering in nothing but pure agony. While the chances of that actually happening were slim, he received the pleasure to meet a result of his movement. Yes, this was going to be more than interesting; it was going to be _fun. _

Light flashed the criminal a small grin. "All right. We can talk."

_You are Kira, right? _To Light, her question sounded more like a fact.

"If you believe I am Kira, so be it." Even in his current situation, Light took precautions. Anyone could be watching at this point in the game, just waiting for him to break. And a slip of the tongue wouldn't be the end of his reign; Light was positive about that.

The girl seemed satisfied with her answer, because she was throwing Light a full-on glare. _Do you know_, she started with unmoving lips, _how many lives you've destroyed? _

"I—or Kira—does not destroy lives because his victims already destroyed their own. He is simply pulling dead flowers out of a garden."

_And what gives you the right to think that? Just because we've wronged society doesn't mean we're a worthless cause. _Her voice was calm and accusatory, the brunet mused. It reminded him of a sweet-toothed detective.

"That's where I disagree," Light began. "The chances of a high-class criminal evolving into a caring, doting person are one in a million. They can't go from just slaughtering to hugging like _that_." He snapped his fingers.

_But I wasn't a high-class criminal! _Anger shot up ten-fold on her face.

"Even if you weren't high-class, I'm sure Kira had some reason to dispose of you."

She broke eye contact instantly, lowering her gaze to the wisps of black dancing at their feet. Guilt, Light noted immediately, consumed her face. Good. She _should_ feel guilty. People like her pulled the trigger first. Kira was merely the medic summoned to a crime scene; he dressed the wounds and delivered peace to the victims. Most importantly, though, he announced the time of death when no one else would.

_Well, he shouldn't have done it with a heart attack_. Her voice flattened but grew with confidence as she continued to speak, making Light slightly disoriented. This childish banter, the brunet realized, was rousing a headache across his brow.

Her eyes lifted to meet his._ I heard once that Kira started killing small offenders with diseases or something like that… But then, I guess Kira got lazy because druggies like me were dropping like flies. _Everywhere. _At one point, there were so many bodies that you could smell rotting meat when you walked through the prison doors. It was a hell of a lot worse in summer, though… The guards wore nose plugs, but apparently filthy scum like me didn't need them. God, at one point, I could taste it—I could actually _taste_ death. _A light chuckle shook her small shoulders. _And then I actually did. _

Well, at least she had a sense of humor. But it died instantly, the atmosphere going cold and blatantly serious again. The sudden shift made Light's heart pound against his ribcage, shoving his stomach to his throat. His skin prickled as it felt an imaginary breeze cut through the air. There was no way she was just a druggie; only sociopaths could shift moods like that.

_Kira, do you know what the purpose of a prison is? _

God, his head _hurt_. It felt like someone was trying to ice pick their way out of his cranium. He craned his neck, silted eyes looking every which way. His headache must've been flipped the Insanity Switch on, because he was wishing—no, _praying_—that a heavenly bottle of aspirin would _(poof!) _appear right before him, pouring all its glorious pills down his throat. He could almost see each one dance its way deep into his esophagus, swimming elegantly in his gastric juices, and taking a wonderful camping trip north to murder those evil bastards chipping away at his mind. Yes, they would pay for their wrong doings. They would be scalped first and then —

_Kira! _

"Huh?"

_What the hell is wrong with you?_

Light slowly released a sigh. While she could transmit thoughts to him, the girl was, in fact, incapable of receiving them. If she could indeed read his mind, the derailment of his thought train would have cost him a large portion of his argument. Light's lips twitched at his findings; apparently, what happens in Light's mind stays in Light's mind.

_Hey! _The brunet jerked backwards when icy fingers slapped his cheek. God, fat men in speedos don't need to run into ball-freezing oceans anymore; they just needed to be hit by ghosts. Both dealt a good deal of numbness _and_ reverse erections.

"D-don't touch m- me!" Hands frantically ran up and down perfectly dressed arms.

_Sorry. _It didn't sound like much of an apology to Light.

The brunet double-checked to make sure her hands were back where they came from before he began. "You said something about the purpose of a prison?"

_Yes. _

"I believe its purpose is to punish, but it doesn't handle the job very well. The typical murderer today is sentenced to a life of eating bon-bons and watching soap operas, maybe reading a few books here and there, when they should be locked inside of a cell with nothing but their thoughts."

_There are a few…discrepancies in prison life, but living in prison isn't a circus, Kira. There are actual punishments; they're just subtle. Like not having a bar of soap or eating shitty food every day. And it sucks not seeing your family when you wake up. Missing a birthday party. Not walking your daughter down the aisle. It all fuckin' _sucks… _But they have to do it because they need to fix us. The purpose of prisons isn't to punish, Kira; it's to _rehabilitate_. _

Frustration contorted the muscles in her pale face. _Before I was arrested, I didn't give a shit about others. It was just me, me, me. It didn't matter if I pawned my sister's engagement ring—I still got high in the end… Christ, I didn't know I could hurt someone so bad in one night… She told me she never wanted to see me again. Wasn't long after that until my ass ended up in jail. _

_Once my withdrawal was over, some psychologist lady sat me down and just wanted to talk. It took a couple months of just talking to get me to open up, but once I did, it was a godamn emotional waterfall. Before I knew it, I was begging for my monthly call, repeating Cindy's number in my head so I wouldn't forget. It was so refreshing to hear her voice; I almost didn't speak. I did, though, and at one point, I was bawling so much I dropped to the floor… No matter how many times I told her I was sorry, she never openly forgave me… I guess she was right: Everything was so fucked up from the beginning that it couldn't be fixed. "Fine," I told her. "You don't have to forgive me. But…could you at least give me a second chance? You don't have to forget all the shit to look at me again." She agreed, and we made plans to visit the next day. _

_I promised myself that night that I'd show her how much I'd changed. Most importantly, though, I'd show her how much I respected and loved her. Our visit was scheduled for 3:30 that afternoon. But I collapsed around 1:30 out on the basketball court, collapsing from a heart attack. _

_Who know what pisses me off the most? Cindy never got to see the new me. All of her memories are diluted with a pissy, selfish version of me. I just wanted to live a life where she didn't hate me as much as she did. Maybe, when my time was up, I'd go see my niece for the first time. Go volunteer at a soup kitchen. Donate most of my clothes. Just do _anything_ to make up for the shit I'd done! _

_Kira killed those dreams, though. He punished me because of my criminal record, not for the person I was. He only saw black and white on reports, but I saw grey in prisons… There are _so _many criminals who would get down on their hands and knees to beg for your forgiveness. You'll never see them, though, because you, Kira, can't see shades of grey. _

Light opened his mouth to reply, but the orange-jumpsuit woman threw her hand up and pressed it hard against his forehead. Before he knew it, the brunet was falling back, back to wherever he came from.

Fear pulsing through him, Light jerked out of his slumber, arms drawing up. He could feel sweat clinging to his forehead, holding on to each pore for its dear life, as he raised a hand to nurse it. That godamn headache still pursued, making wide blurs in his mind as to what was fiction and nonfiction. Tense, he waited for that stupid girl to continue her little soliloquy, so Kira would fall to his knees and kiss the ground she walked. Oh, like _hell_ that was going to happen. If anything, she should be doing that to him. Nothing that came out of the bitch's mind tugged at his heart. It was just a bunch of mushy _shit _aimed to—

Something moved beside him. Light felt the mattress tremble from underneath him as something rolled over and embraced his chest. "Hm, Light?"

Oh—Misa.

"Just a dream," he breathed almost listlessly. For a moment, he wondered if his reverse erection wasn't caused by the ghost's slap but rather Misa's touch. Shaking his thoughts, Light moved his hand from his forehead to his eyes, making gentle circles with his thumb.

"What did you say, Light?"

"Nothing. Go back to sleep."

Light felt Misa pull herself up from his side, balancing herself on his chest. "But I can't go back to sleep without a sweet, romantic kiss from my prince."

"Misa, I believe it's the other way around. In order for your theory to work, you'd need to bite a poisonous apple or prick your finger on a spinning wheel at age sixteen. Now, since you're well past sixteen, I can arrange something with Ryuk with the app—"

"Hey! Light's no fun. I guess Misa-Misa will just have to be awoken by a kiss. Goodnight, my fair prince! Sweet dreams!"

_(Because you, Kira, can't see shades of grey.)_

Light shook his head again, breaking Misa's grasp on him, and sat up on the edge of the bed. Searching for his robe, Light wondered if the ghost was right. Kira certainly doesn't see shades of grey, but why did that have to be such a bad thing? Allowing yourself to witness the greys in life only leads you to a path full of morals. And Kira didn't want morals; he wants _justice_.

And as long as there are greys in this world, there can never be justice.

With that, Light tied his robe and began his search for pain medication.

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**Author's Note: **Please stay tuned for next week's theme, _Dangerous Territory_! And feel free to review. :3


	2. Dangerous Territory

**Author's Note****:** Hey, guys! I hope you enjoyed the last chapter. Here's a much lighter one! :3

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**Disclaimer**: I do not own Death Note. Only Mr. Pickles. :O

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66. Dangerous Territory

(Genre: Comedy/Humor)

Matt's eyes squinted with determination, the tip of his tongue hooked on the curve of his lip. _Almost there… _

Leathered thumbs hastily guided a character sprite on the Nintendo DS screen like a man dragging a puppy down the sidewalk. Through tinted lenses, Matt spotted Cerulean Cave's exit shining brightly in its own pixilated way, and cheers of victory roared in his head. _Finally! Looks like I got about fifty more steps to go. Then I'll just run to Cerulean's PC and maybe pick up a few Super Potions and—_

All of a sudden, Matt's character froze, and a message the redhead most dreaded in the whole universe of Pokémon appeared: "SUPER REPEL'S effect wore off!"

_Dammit, now I'm gonna get raped by Zubats. _Matt hesitantly pressed the A button and kept his character's stubby legs going. Fear swept through him like a hurricane. If he didn't get out of this damn cave soon, his beaten Charmander was going to faint, leaving his only chance of survival with a stupid Magikarp. Yeah, he was screwed.

Hope rose in Matt's chest. He was a few steps away from the exit, and not one wild Pokémon had dared to stop him! _Phew, that was a close one. I need to buy more supplies next time I go into a friggin' cave. _

_Snap! _Across the room, Near perched behind an elaborate Lego fortress with one hand working, the other secured tightly around a white curl. Matt enjoyed being in Near's company. It was nice being around someone who didn't compulsively boss him around or felt the need to shove fistfuls of chocolate in their face every millisecond. Plus, Near was the quietest sheep he'd ever met, which left tons of room for concentration for Matt. And he needed to consume every single pound of it right now.

Matt urged his character forward, but it wouldn't budge. Then, with horror, he realized what was going on. Gary, the sprite's rival, smugly walked up. _Oh, shit. This ain't good. _Forced into battle, Matt began to sweat. If he didn't win, he'd be teleported back to Cerulean Cave's entrance, and Matt didn't want to go through that bullshit again.

Out of nowhere, the toy room door swung open, its door knob pounding the wall with a _bam! _The redhead didn't dare to break his stare with his gaming system. Even if Mello had found him, there was no way he was leaving without this battle completed. Gary Oak needed a lesson in Ass-kicking 101, anyway.

"Matt," Mello spoke from the door frame. Coward must have been too afraid to be in the same room with Near. Either that or too pissed. Matt assumed the latter. "I need to talk to you."

"Hang on. Just give me, like, five more minutes."

"Jesus, I don't have five damn minutes!"

Matt made a cat noise. "God, pussy, what climbed up your ass today?"

Under the right circumstances, Mello would have laughed at Matt's remark. This wasn't a right circumstance. "_Matt! _Just get your fuckin' _ass _over here!"

"Not until you tell me what's wrong."

Mello huffed loudly. "I can't do shit until we're alone."

"Just pretend Near's a wall and I'm your shrink. Now, tell me, how does that make you feel?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Matt saw a white blob pop up over the multi-colored divider. "I find Matt's statement to be partially truthful. While I am not a wall, I am, indeed, behind a wall. Therefore, I am out of your way. Please continue on with your conversation."

"You heard him. Continue on with your conversation, Mello."

Oddly enough, Mello didn't carry on conversation for a good few minutes. Matt thought he left and futilely used all of his mental capacity to crush his rival's Growilthe. It wasn't going too well, and his Charmander hung on with a few HP points left. At this point, Matt felt like turning the damn thing off and finding Mello himself. But quitting is for losers, and Matt wasn't a loser. No matter how hard the game, the redhead played until all stakes are lost.

"Fine," Mello said, still standing in the doorway. He must've brooded over Near's words for a while, Matt guessed. _That's weird. Since when does Mello think about Near's two cents? _"It's not like Near wouldn't know, anyway… The, uh, test scores are up and…"

"And?"

"Second. Again."

"That's it?"

"Goddammit, Matt! That was my one chance at beating Near and proving to L how much worthier to him as a successor! I mean, I studied all last week; read every fuckin' textbook and university article I could get my hands on, and still—number two!"

Matt chuckled a little. "It's shit, ain't it?"

"Shut the fuck up, Matt!"

"May I suggest something?" Near's monotone voice made the room heavier. Matt half-expected Mello to storm over there and pull the boy's head off.

"_No!" _

"Yes," Matt chimed in for hilarity's sake.

"Perhaps if you didn't waste all your efforts on trying to beat me, you might actually beat me."

Matt glanced up from his DS. Now real life seemed to be a hell of out lot more interesting.

"What? That doesn't even make sense. How the hell do I beat you without trying to beat you?"

"By focusing on yourself and not others." Near's voice was more blunt than normal.

"Bull. Shit." Mello, now teeming with frustration, strode into the room. A teddy bear sat innocently in the raging blond's path, and he punted it up to the ceiling fan. Quivering, the fan's blades moaned in protest as it tried to consume the bear. Luckily for the honey-crazed animal, the fan issued only a few wounds before hurling it just above Near's head.

Matt was horrible at reading other's emotions (especially the sheep's), but if he had to guess, Near probably wanted to shit his pants right now. _I really can't blame him…_

A piece of teddy guts had floated down and landed on Mello's disheveled hair, making Matt laugh inwardly. Mello's distorted face topped with fluff was a rare image, and he made sure to make note of it for later.

"You little prick, I can't focus _without _wanting to beat the living shit out of you!" Mello stood a good foot away from Near's face. Matt imagined the albino just endured a good spit storm. If only he had an umbrella with him.

Currently, Near focused on his wall, probably hoping to finish it by the time Mello was done screaming. "I find that a little concerning. I do not wish the same to you. In fact, I see you as more of a partner."

One sharp laugh came out of Matt's mouth. _Dear God, I'm gonna see blood in the next five seconds. _

Mello's face turned bright red. "Hell _no! _I'll _never _work with _you_, bastard! We're enemies, okay? _Enemies!"_

Near shrugged. "Perhaps to you, but not to me."

Mello's foot flew forward, spraying Legos directly at Near. "What about now, huh? We enemies now?"

"Why, thank you, Mello. I was about to destroy it myself, but your method is, by far, the easiest. Would you mind destroying the rest for me?"

The blond released a low growl. "Fuck you."

"Suit yourself."

Matt watched as Mello stormed out of the room, fists bolted tightly at his sides. "Matt! Get your ass off that couch and come with me! _Now!_"

Peace. It was something he dreamt about, and the only way to achieve it at the moment was to follow his friend. So, he snapped his DS shut and shuffled out the door, closing it quietly behind him. Near at least deserved a silent exit.

* * *

"Where is Professor Berch?" Near asked softly. His eyes were fixed on a paper below him (undoubtedly his speech), a hand wrapping hair quickly around its fingers like a stick in a cotton candy machine. Occasionally, his fingers would separate fine curls between them. _I bet he has a bunch of splits ends_, Matt thought absently.

A quiet-looking Asian woman broke contact with Berch's notes and peered at the boy through thick glasses. "One of his kids got sick last night, and his wife is out of vacation time."

A classic cover-up story. Berch was probably at a sport's game or some local pub with old buddies. Matt couldn't blame the guy, though; it was hard to convince Roger you needed time off from teaching geniuses, because, by the end of the day, they begin teaching _you_.

"And may I ask who you are?"

"Professor Tamaki—it's written on the board."

Matt wanted to laugh. It was a rare thing when Near would ask the obvious.

Mello was sending Near a full-on death glare from the second he stepped foot in the classroom. It was a grueling attempt on Mello's part, his forehead laden sweat, his hands glued firmly to the desk's cork edging. Unfortunately for the blond, Professor Berch had assigned Mello directly behind Near. He tried switching places with others, but every time, Berch would mark him absent. A significant amount of skipped classes led to…horrible encounters in Roger's office, and he really didn't want to endure that. So, he stifled his anger and ignored the sheep in front of him.

_And he was doing so well. Until today…_

"Mello, if you keep doing that, you'll have to buy a new desk."

"I. Don't. Give. A. Damn." His voice was low and raspy.

"All right, then." Matt turned to his textbook and reluctantly flipped it open. If he was going to spend his free time saving Princess Peach, he better start reading ahead. Lord only knows how many times she's been felt-up by Bowser.

"Matt," Mello whispered. "He still doesn't hate me, right?"

"Who?"

"Near."

"Probably not." He turned a page.

"Well, I think I'm gonna solve that."

"Really?" At this point, Matt wasn't all ears. Talking with Mello was like talking to a woman. All you had to do was nod and give a _"No, he didn't!"_ and a _"That's not right!"_, and you were home clear. By the end of it, he was drowning his emotions in chocolate and Matt was still happily playing his game without any interruptions. It was a win-win, really.

"Yeah. I've already done one thing. Makes it even easier now there's a sub."

Matt nodded. "Hm."

"Yep. You should look at this. It's kinda in plain sight."

"No, he didn't!" There was a long pause. Matt slowly lifted his eyes from the page, meeting Mello's stern face. "What?"

"What the hell did I just say?"

"Uh…" Dammit. Caught red-handed. "Did I ever tell you I really like your shirt? Really brings out the color in your eyes."

"Goddammit, Matt! Would it kill you to pay attention when I'm fucking talking?"

"Perhaps."

Mello reached over and slapped the back of his neck. Matt's hand immediately went to go nurse the wound. "Okay! Okay! Fine, tell me what you said, and I promise to always listen to you."

Mello pointed at the back of Near's shirt. There was a torn note fastened to it that read: _I'M A SHEEP. BAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH! _

Oh, that inside joke never got old. Matt offered a hand erectly in the air, and Mello slapped it hard.

"Your best creation yet," Matt remarked, brushing an invisible tear from his eye.

"Oh, just wait and see what else I've got planned."

Matt gave a curious look, but he had no time to inquire further. The substitute had already taken her place at the podium and was now barking commands. It took a good two minutes for the roar to subside.

"Good morning, everyone. My name is Professor Tamaki, and I will be filling in for Professor Berch today."

A student in the back gave a long _awww_, and the class shook in laughter. Professor Tamaki kept a straight face and waited patiently for everyone to finish.

"On my notes, it says that we are giving presentation on different sociological paradigms. And it's supposed to start with, uh, Near, correct?"

"Let's watch a movie instead!"

"Can we have class outside? It's really nice out."

"I heard they're setting up for a petting zoo in front of the daycare center. Can we go see the animals?"

"No, I wanna watch that movie on Karl Marx!"

"Screw Marx! Freud is where it's at!"

"_No! We are not going anywhere!" _Matt was a little surprised the professor could yell like that.

The class became filled with whispers of ceiling fans and the hums of idling computers.

"Now, I'd like to take attendance." Attendance taking at Wammy's consisted of names on a seating chart, which eliminated entering names into its database. The less students' files were on electronic files, the better. A few odd looks later, Tamaki had completed her task. She looked directly at the white-haired boy in front of Mello.

"Are you ready, Near?"

"Yes." He sure didn't sound ready. As he walked up to the podium, a couple kids snickered upon discovering Mello's artwork. Interestingly enough, their new professor didn't even notice it; she was too busy trying to collect herself in her seat. And when she did look up, the note was out of sight.

Matt looked over at his friend. Mello was grinning proudly from ear to ear. But he wasn't done yet—a pile of mushed paper balls lay on his lap. Matt even spotted a few paper wedges lined with duct tape. The redhead shifted in his seat; he had a feeling this wasn't going to end well.

Near delivered his speech in his usual monotone voice, and by the time he got to the structural-functional paradigm and its interpretation of society, half of the class was either doodling or dozing off. Perfect conditions for a paper war. _More like a paper invasion. _

Mello launched his first bomb with a quick flick of the wrist, throwing his hand underneath his desk as soon as the mission was completed. Excitement rose in Matt's chest as he watched it majestically fly through the air and land squarely on Near's head.

The sheep didn't even _flinch_.

Mello cursed a little louder than he should have, aiming two papery grenades this time.

Nothing.

Four paper balls.

That small mouth of his kept moving.

Five.

Nil, nada, zip, zero, and zilch.

Matt turned to Mello (he could have sworn veins were popping out of his head) and offered an apologetic look. _At least he tried. _

Instantly, Mello's face twisted deviously, a maniac smile planted between two dimples. The blond was eyeing a paper wedge resting between his fingers.

_Shit, I forgot he had those._

Mello positioned its sharp corners between a forefinger and the desk's surface, his other hand forming an okay sign. Matt started to sweat a little underneath his wool vest. If his friend got in trouble for this, he'll just say he was an innocent bystander with no persuasion powers. _Yes, Mello is Batman, and I am _not_ Robin._

The wedge soared across the room, spinning haphazardly on its axis, making little _whoosh! _sounds as it sliced through the air. It was dead on course.

Matt shut his eyes and bit the inside of his cheek. Hard.

"—and that is why the social-conflict paradigm is a rather negative view of how society functions. Displaying the best of both worlds, the—" Near's voice faltered. Matt heard Mello make a victorious sound off to the side.

_Well, mission accomplished. Maybe Mello'll quit this act now and—_

"I'm bleeding," Near announced rather unenthusiastically. God, even when he's hurt, he's still a robot.

Matt snapped his eyes open. Near had a white sleeve attached to his cheek. Little specks of pink bled through the cotton. "I hope that's not his favorite shirt," Matt murmured.

"Bleeding?" Professor Tamaki asked. She sounded a little worried. The clicks of her heels resounded off the walls as she made her way to the podium. Students around the room gradually roused from their tranquil states. Some of them shared the professor's feelings, but there were a few who smirked to themselves. Vince, an American kid with blue hair, glanced across the room and gave Mello a thumbs-up. There was no hiding for his friend; his only card to play was Tamaki, and she was already absorbed in Near's horrific state. Like hell she'd listen to him.

"Can someone take him down to the infirmary?"

"Mello will," a blond girl spoke, turning around from her doodles to shoot Mello a stern glare. It was Linda, and she had a certain…disposition for Near. No one really understood why, though.

"No, I won't, bitc—er—Linda!"

"But you're the one who did it!"

"Did not!"

"Why's all that paper around you, huh? And why's there a lot of paper around Near? Coincidence? I think not!"

"Shut up!"

"No! Not until you confess!"

"Near," Professor Tamaki softly began, "did you see who was throwing those paper balls at you?"

The sheep's eyes were fixed on the ground; he remained silent for a good minute. "I believe it was Mello."

"That's BS!"

"Mello!" Professor Tamaki's brow furrowed, her voice booming. "I'll hear no more of it! Now, please take Near down to the nurse and march yourself down to the office. And if you come back to this classroom, I'll call Mr. Roger down here myself."

Without a second's notice, Mello huffed and stood up, stomping over to Near. He roughly grabbed his rival's forearm and marched out of the room. On their way out, Matt heard Near, a hand still glued to his face, whisper to the blond, "I forgive you, Mello. I know you were in no way trying to cause me bodily harm. I suppose fun can get out of hand sometimes."

The redhead snickered. _Mission failed. Over._

* * *

Matt had never seen Mello so desperate in his life. Currently, they were hunched in Near's closet, waiting for the sheep to return to his meadow. For the last two hours, they had been embarking on a nostalgic prank journey. They buttered Near's wood-finished floors, duct-taped books to their shelves, glued pen caps on, floured the ceiling fan, and (Mello's personal favorite) removed all the screws from the bed. They both were uncertain whether Near actually slept, but even if he sat down on its cushioned top, the bed would come full-force to the floor.

The floor idea was Matt's favorite, more or less because he felt like Mario skidding on ice.

An hour had passed since they finished, and Matt wondered mildly if Near ever came to his room. If that happened, Matt at least wanted to skate on the floor more before they booked it.

"Mello," he whined a little. Crouching wasn't exactly good on his knees. Plus, he still had Princess Peach to rescue. "I don't think he's coming—"

"Shhh!"

Some noises were coming from outside the door. Correction: One voice. And it was relatively annoying. Matt heard the door creak open, that high-pitched voice becoming very recognizable.

"And then I was like, 'No! You can't take Mr. Pickles! He's _mine!_ It's not like you need an animal to study while you draw, Georgia!' And then she stuck her tongue out at me! Can you believe that, Near?" Linda.

"Yes, I can."

"You're supposed to say nooooooo—"

_BAM! _

"_Shit!" _Mello slowly opened the door, strands of blond hair coming out from the shadows.

Matt looked out from behind his friend's legs, even though he really didn't need to. It was just as he thought: Linda was sprawled out on Near's bed (luckily, her skirt covered anything they never wanted to see), her supposed Mr. Pickles stuck to the wall beside her head.

_Damn, that cat's fat. How the hell did Linda carry that thing?_

"Mello?" Near's head popped out from the doorframe.

"Mello," Linda growled, gathering herself up on the sunken bed. She skid over and yanked the door open; her eyes were _crazy_. "Mello, did you do this?"

"Uh…It was Matt's idea."

"Bullshit!"

"How could you ruin _my _Near's room?"

"We didn't. You're just fat."

If looks could kill, Mello would have been stabbed thirty-seven times in the chest and possibly have a book shoved down his throat. Linda lunged at the blond with clawed hands, but he dodged her attack, crawling (well, more like crawling then falling) out into the room.

The crazed girl scrambled up to her feet and bolted out of the closet, grabbing ahold of Mr. Pickles. Just as Mello reached Near, Linda chucked the cat at the blond. It must've had all its claw, because Mello was screaming bloody murder.

"_Get this fucking cat off of me! Goddammit, get off, you pussy! GET THE FUCK OFF!"_

_CRASH! _

Matt rose from his hiding place and exchanged looks with Near. "That didn't sound good."

* * *

Mello hated Roger's office. It was painted this stupid pale yellow, the kind you'd find on one of Near's rubber ducks. And the decorations—Mello doubted if Roger actually knew what color coordination meant. Vases of all kinds perched in cabinets and on his desk. Dumb knickknacks littered wooden surfaces, too. The worst decoration of all was the singing bass fish fastened to his wall. Roger thought it was amusing, but it made Mello's ears want to bleed.

Currently, his left hand was hand-cuffed to his chair. And the chair was bolted to the floor. What a fuckin' joy.

"Mello," Roger said from behind a manila folder. "Do you know what you broke?"

"A vase." _Like you need anymore. _

"Do you know why that vase was important me?"

"No."

"It belonged to a good friend of mine, Charleen Morris. She unfortunately died in a car accident thirteen years ago, and that vase was given to me after her funeral."

"And?"

Roger threw down the folder, giving Mello a stern look from behind his glasses. "I believe you need to learn to tame your tongue, young man… And what's this about tampering with Near's room?"

"Matt did it, too."

"Well, I'll have to speak with him later. Right now, I want to focus on _you. _So, you admit to doing it?"

"I guess."

"Very well. I'll be back with your punishment."

_Punishment? What happened to, 'Oh Mello, I know you're such a good boy, so I'll give you a warning this time.'? Well, his punishments can't be that bad, can they? _

Roger returned with a jar of white stuff and a spoon. _Oh God._

"What is _that_?"

"Mayonnaise. You're going to eat every bite of it."

Mello scrunched his nose. "And what if I throw up?"

"Well, we'll just have to figure that out when it happens, now won't we?"

* * *

Ever since his punishment, Mello never dared to pummel Near beyond reason, because every time he looked at Near's white shirt, hair, and skin, the taste of mayonnaise would come running up his throat. And that was just dipping his toe in a very dangerous territory.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Next week's theme is number fifty-one, _Troubling Thoughts!_


	3. Troubling Thoughts

**Author's** **Note**: A warm hello to you all. I've decided to change my Update Day to Thursday, as it's more convenient for me. If you're wondering why I took a two week hiatus, blame my Internet. Long story short, it quit working for two weeks straight. Very dark time in my life, indeed. _  
_

I'm glad to be back, though. Here's another chapter. Enjoy!

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**Disclaimer**:I do not own Soichiro Yagami or any other Death Note characters mentioned.

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_51. Troubling Thoughts_

(Genre: Angst/Emotional)

It was a rare day when Soichiro Yagami drank.

After witnessing numerous cases chock full of staggering drunks and their unfortunate mishaps, the chief had concluded back in his trainee days that drinking was solely reserved for holidays and special occasions. And for really, _really _bad cases. He always had to watch his feet, though. In his division, it was standard for a cop to grace his way onto a barstool every night on the heels of a stomach-churning investigation. It didn't take long before shiny flasks made flashy appearances on the job. Then, the evident would happen: a meeting with the deputy director. In the end, you had two choices—resign _or_ state your name, favorite color, favorite brand of toilet paper, and favorite addictive sedative to a bunch of droopy-eyed, hung-over adults.

So, the chief avoided the cause altogether. Better safe than sorry, he'd always say.

His black mustache curved as a grimace planted itself on his face. _But I wouldn't say that, not right now—oh, hell no. _

His back hunched forward, Soichiro stood with a heavy-bottomed glass full of scotch he had purchased from Shark Fin Liquor (_DOLPHIN-FREE SINCE 1956._) around noon. The brassy liquid now sat just above room temperature, and it was starting to toss his insides like a chef spinning pizza dough. Regardless of its puking potential, he needed it.

The chief's grip tightened around the glass's lukewarm surface, gazing dully on the nightlife painting neon below. As much as he hated admitting it, this damn Kira Case was eating his sanity, bite by bite.

Emotionally-wise, Soichiro had been particularly good at separating himself from a case; work was work, and home was home. Work-Soichiro maintained a stoic face, performed necessary duties in robotic dances, and addressed traumatic situations with the utmost respect, like a coroner dissecting a dead girl's remains. Yes, the poking and prodding was mandatory, but you were going to do it as nicely as possible. And, to keep you from dropping your balls, you were going to calmly tell yourself this wasn't a poor high school student who had recently won Nationals for her swim team—no, this was just another pig on Grandpa's farm. You'd gut it and move on with your life.

Home-Soichiro, however, freely expressed himself to no end. He could smile and laugh with his children while watching their favorite sitcom, hold small fight with his wife, or lose himself in a soap opera without the Eye of Judgment looming over him. Hell, he could tap dance with a wooden pirate leg, and no one would give a crap. It was rather…freeing.

Work-Soichiro handled the Kira Case from the get-go. All was swell, but the second L mentioned his son, Light, was a possible suspect, Home-Soichiro kicked down all emotional barriers. Every day the two sides of him spat at the other. If L suggested something that violated the privacy of his family, Home-Soichiro wanted to storm over there and punch the detective in the balls. Hard. But Work-Soichiro rationalized his anger and screamed counterarguments and related the effects of his premeditated actions, _blah blah blah._ He felt wrung-out like Silly Putty half the time.

Eventually, he learned to block them out, sometimes humming a tune under his breath to make it go faster. But this road only led to why-aren't-you-listening-to-me looks from the task force, which left him to grin and bear it. _That's right—just grin, Chief. It'll be over in a sec, like a needle in your arm. But don't smile too much; you'll look suspicious. _

Suspicious, uh?

All of a sudden, L's voice rushed full-force into his thoughts, his monotone voice driving daggers into the chief's brain: _Your son appears very suspicious to me…That's quite a suspicious thing to do…Why, the way he said that seemed very suspicious, don't you think? Yes, very suspicious, indeed. _ _I find it rather suspicious…Suspicious…Suspicious…SUSPICIOUS! _

Soichiro shoved the glass's rim to his thin lips and took a long, big gulp. Scotch burned its way down his throat, making him feel like someone was trying to strike a match on the lining his esophagus. Within seconds, his stomach curled against his throat. The abrupt pressure sent barking coughs back up and a little aftertaste present. He must have had the alcohol tolerance of a Catholic school girl. _Well, I never really was much of a drinker. Maybe I should start…This goddamn case will be the death of me, anyway. _

His coughing fit lasted no more than two minutes. Still, it was a pretty long time. Matsuda was sleeping soundly in the room next to his, and the chief had no intentions of waking him on his time off. Even while staying at the new task force headquarters, it was a blessing to sleep in your own bed. L would tell you to sleep on the couches downstairs, and you did so. After all, he was the _boss_ and he was always _right_ and—

(_Was he always right?)_

Soichiro didn't dare ask that question when the case had first opened. L was just a super-genius detective with a super-genius mind—so, obviously he was always right. Not like they had any leads, anyway. Then Light entered stage left, and Soichiro didn't want to believe L _was _right. The world's greatest detective would throw around small percentages like Ping-Pong balls, perhaps to ease the pain, but the chief wasn't a brick wall. He thought—no, he _knew_—that L held Light as _the _top suspect.

He researched like fussy college student with a late paper in his free time. Case after case after case. L was apparently a very efficient detective. Some investigations were solved within _minutes _of each other, others hours. Still, it was highly impressive—no, _astounding_. Soichiro was a lucky duck if a misdemeanor fixed itself in a few days, let alone in the same hour it was committed. And that only applied to minor situations; the Big Four Cases (murder, rape, grand theft, and illegal trafficking, respectfully) took months to unfold and push out all their stubborn creases. Solving any of the Big Four was like watching a man wrestle a tiger. The man can put up the best fight imaginable, but you know in the end that the tiger's going to pull tendons from bones like a child dissecting Twislers. At this point in the game, L enters and ends the tiger with one silver bullet in the skull. The man is saved (Hurray! Whiskey and donuts for everyone!), and they all live happily ever after. The end.

Hours and hours and hours of straight research, and every fucking case ended with fairy tale credits. No screw-ups. No hey-I-accidently-set-an-officer-up-for-kidnapping-I'm-sorry-for-your-loss-but-there's-nothing-I-can-do-because-he's-probably-dead-right-nows. _Nothing. _

Soichiro idly massaged the back of his neck with his free hand. Then again, when people screw up something, they wipe their fingerprints off evidence and move on. It was possible L at one point in time screwed himself over pretty bad and just deleted or burned any information related to it. Hell, if he could destroy every picture of himself, Soichiro had no doubt he could wipe out several reports on sour cases.

The chief seized this realization, clinging to its comforting, pillow-like aurora. It warmed his heart to think L had been wrong at one point or another. Evidence or no evidence.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Next week's theme is _20. My Inspiration. _Oh Lordy, I'm going to have fun with that one. :]

Your honest feedback are jewels to me, precious jewels. No matter what you have to say, say it. Constructive criticism is always welcomed. Don't be shy; I don't bite. :3


	4. My Inspiration

**Author's Note**: A thank you to all who have alerted/reviewed! I'd like to say that any "aurora comments" at this point _are not _pointless, because I still have ninety-six stories left. So, go ahead, don't be shy: Tell me what you really think. But first, please read this new chapter, featuring our favorite Kira besides the actual one: Mikami. And enjoy! :)

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**Disclaimer:** I do not own Death Note nor Mikami Teru and his beliefs.

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_20. My Inspiration_

(Genre: Angst/Religious)

Mikami hated painting. It wasn't that it was complicated or overly strenuous—sure, your hand begs for a break ten minutes in, leaving you to contemplate what colors give genuine compliments to others, while your fingers take a nap—but rather forced and processed. They say art has no boundaries; you can paint an obese dog riding a scooter, those couple branches etching their fingers across your window during your beauty sleep, or just a blotchy red line running across a black canvas. And people would pay _millions _for your masterpiece, despite your overall lack of talent, simply because art is art.

The black-haired man snorted, adding a glob of cream to a pale canvas wedged between the lips of an easel. At least, that's what _they, _the pot-smoking dreamers of the world, tell you. What they don't tell you is that you could spend days breaking your back for a "masterpiece," and John Smith at a local art auction snatches it for pennies. Your inner starving artist consumes any profit you make. Still, it's not enough. You grunge through your almost empty pockets for months, and then one morning you open your eyes to a dog pissing on your leg and remember the bank repossessed everything except your precious creative materials, which are currently serving as a barrier between your head and the icy sidewalk. What a dream to dream.

Mikami had never comprehended artists, at least the ones claiming to be "misunderstood." They'd bitch and moan about how their talent was wasted and expect people to hang their chicken scratch above the family mantle to accompany Mildred the Moosehead. It was time they face the facts and understand that Mildred the Moosehead didn't need any more friends. Besides, what was their art really accomplishing? Nothing.

To Mikami, art was just eye candy. You ogled it for five seconds and then wondered what you were going to have for dinner that night. It serves no purpose in the battle between the good and the evil; it just gets tangled in the crossfires like a child running between two opposing soldiers.

His brush's bristles swirled the eggshell-colored paint to the final edge of the canvas as he reached for a charcoal bottle, squeezing its contents out onto his palette with one firm squeeze. Before stroking the new hue to his work, Mikami adjusted his glasses, his index finger gliding them back to the bridge of his nose. Then, he dabbed into the pool of black resting on his palm and began adding darkness to a world of light.

He made sure there wasn't an ounce of grey, not a smidgen of blending, present on his painting, because when it all came down to it at the end of they day, there were no grey people walking about on the streets, buying their morning Starbucks on their commute, or playing with toddlers at the park. No. They were either black or white, good or evil.

Mikami shrugged inwardly. He supposed art allowed you to express your ideals others may not understand through word of mouth, but it still came with a laundry list. In order for anything to happen, you needed supplies. Next, you need to know how to do X, Y, and Z, otherwise it'll look like your cat created it when you went to take a whiz. And, above all, you cannot do B, because if you do B, all hell breaks loose.

Yes, you could let all hell break loose, but chances are you wouldn't get recognition for it right now. Come two centuries, and some French entrepreneur might decide you were Picaso of your time. However, you'd be pushing daisies through six feet of dirt or scattered about your favorite vacation spot. It's not like you'd receive royalties on a quarterly basis or anything. You'd be out of this life and into the next, wherever that may be.

In all honesty, Mikami didn't know what was waiting for him after he bit the dust; all he knew was that God (or Kira) punished the bad and rewarded the good. Perhaps if on his deathbed God decides he's a good candidate for reincarnation or the elusive Paradise, Mikami would be more than honored to take it. But if life finished with nothingness, he supposed that wouldn't be bad, either. It sent shivers quaking up and down his spine, though, to think that the righteous and the unrighteous all end up the same way—just bags of bones.

_None of that really matters, though, as long as I continue to be God's Hand. Praise the good and destroy the bad, and I'll be granted God's Promiseland. _Mikami hummed his clever little rhyme underneath his breath, completing the outline of a blob with body parts jutting out of its silhouette with a few hard strokes. Now he just needed to fill it in and add a bright white figure on top of the mess.

Mikami had no intentions of his painting being a complementary piece to Mildred the Moose. Or, for that matter, being a hot item at an art auction. No, _no, _because that would be all wrong. He was painting because _they _made him do it.

They called it "art therapy," where you vent your emotions onto a slab of white, praying to resolve the issue with spats of gooey substance. The problem was Mikami had no such emotions to vent. Had he been furious with his co-workers when they spoke out against his God? Hell yes. But he knew that all non-supporters of Kira would kiss the ground he walked on one day. It was evident karma. So, he spoke his mind and told them that. It settled with them as much as chocolate settles with scrambled eggs. Next thing he knew, he was being filed for "verbal assault" and issued into Fuko's Rehabilitation Center for a month's time.

It was absolutely ridiculous what people could get away with today in court. Mikami wished those idiots could feel the Wrath of God. And they would the second he was released.

Raindrops drummed against large panes of glass to his left, sending their staccatos off the walls and into his ears. The atmosphere was quite fitting, really: fluorescent lights fighting to keep brooding darkness outside; strict shadows standing defined against white walls like the legs of a tall cartoon man; rain pellets cleansing the city of all its sin, washing it anew. It was the life of a man who walked God's Walk, who—

"Mr. Mikami?" A door closed softly behind him. "Are you almost finished? A group session is about to begin."

Ah yes, group sessions. The AA meetings of correctional centers. Mikami surveyed his painting, placing his brush in the crevice below it. It wasn't as good as he hoped it'd be, but it was decent for a beginner. It was simplistic, yet complicated: a white man with his palms to the sky standing on a mass of squirming black corpses, a neutral cream engulfing the background. Granted it wasn't a depiction of his feelings, but it was still something he loved more than himself: God. His life. His muse. And forever his inspiration.

"Yes, I'm done." Satisfied, Mikami left the room, following the nurse to his weekly group session.

_Only two more of these to go, my Lord, and then I'm back in Your arms._

* * *

**Author's Note**: Thoughts? Did you like it? Did you not like it? I'm dying to hear (or read) what you thought. .3.

Please stay tuned for next week's theme, _27. Lost and Found! _I'll give you a sneak peak: It'll feature the likes of L and Beyond Birthday.


	5. Lost and Found

**Author's Note: **Hello, my lovely readers! Unfortunately, since college is starting soon, I'm only going to update biweekly. But that means the chapters will be longer and more productive. Now, I'll quit my rambling, so you can get to the new chapter, _Lost and Found. _Enjoy! :)

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**Disclaimer:** I do not own Death Note, L, Watari, or Beyond Birthday.

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_27. Lost and Found_

(Genre: Supernatural)

"Watari, could you fetch me a cake?"

"A whole cake, Ryuzaki?"

"Yes. I'd prefer it have extra frosting as well, if you could please add that to the order."

"Of course. Do you have a particular bakery in mind?"

"No preferences. Please do make sure, though, that their specialty is _pastries. _I'd prefer to avoid sweets coming from a bread shop."

"I'll take note of that. I shall return in thirty minutes or so."

Watari didn't return in thirty minutes, L noted from the digital clock perched in the corner of his screen. It had been approximately a fifteen minute commute for his older friend, and, judging by how often a bakery staff fuses his order with another's or misses a very important component on his list, the transaction itself could take twenty minutes easily. Of course, Watari was only selecting one item, as opposed to fifty-seven. One would think that would make his visit shorter—very far from the truth. A larger order creates chaos inside a store; a smaller order, naturally, arouses a sense of confidence, a can-do attitude, if you will. Which leaves marginal room for error. Unfortunately.

L sighed under his breath, accepting that it may be twenty minutes before Watari returned. His spidery fingers jumped across the keyboard in front of him, making soft clicking noises, alternating rhythms with taps of the space bar.

He had given the Task Force what normal employers call a "vacation day." It was January 23, and the case had been rather slow as of late. Not six days ago had L held eye contact with Light Yagami at To-Oh's exam hall. Yet everything seemed unproductive. Kira still silently strangled his victims' hearts, yes, but nothing had showed itself as noteworthy. Well, save for _one _thing, he supposed: Beyond Birthday, a former rival of his and renowned mass murder, had fallen at the hands of a more socially-accepted mass murderer two days prior.

The detective leaned slightly back in his chair, rolling his eyes up to the speckled ceiling. The news of Birthday's passing hadn't affected him in the slightest. True, they had once lived under the same roof and had eaten at the same table. But his acquaintance always held a stiff hand when L would greet him, firing daggers into his back when L would exit the room. It was all a show, really: Birthday mustering a toothy grin, using the same mouth later to curse L's name. If they hadn't been under Watari's watchful eye, L was positive Birthday would have found the means to kill him. Well, _eighty percent _positive. Regardless, the odds were still in Birthday's favor.

There came a point, though, when Birthday had become dissatisfied with the idea of merely killing the great detective—mostly likely when he realized that he would be expected to fill the shoes of the very person he cursed. Becoming L would kill Beyond Birthday, and there wasn't anything the man loved more than Beyond Birthday. And a good philosophical game of cat-and-mouse, of course.

The Los Angeles BB Murder Case hadn't been about Believe Bridesmaid, Quarter Queen, or Backyard Bottomslash; L had known that from the very beginning. The entire mess had been Birthday's attempt at demolishing L's reputation as the World's Greatest Detective by creating a case L himself couldn't solve. Fortunately, though, Birthday was unaware that he wasn't just the World's Greatest Detective; he was the World's Three Greatest Detectives. So, if by chance Birthday's plan had succeeded, L could have easily fallen back on his remaining two aliases and summoned them to the World's Greatest Detective podium. However, that was never necessary. Birthday _had _failed, and the show was over.

And now that Beyond Birthday was lost forever, L hoped his childhood acquaintance could finally rest in peace.

He realigned his back, moving it as far away from the support of his chair as possible. _This _was what happened when he disrupted normal routine. His lack of sugar was already doing him in, messing with his judgment like a bird on a live electrical line, and an incorrect posture had pushed him off Logical Cliff. L was barely holding on now, a hand latched to metaphorical jagged rock.

_Get up. Walk about. Just don't sit there like the caged monkey you are. _

L stared a draped window stuck in the wall opposite of him, almost feeling mocked by its presence. _Despite me being a "caged monkey," looking out of my cage does not help the fact that I'm still caged._

_No, but it creates an illusion of hope—hope you'll escape. _

_Escape? Please, I'm free to leave whenever I wish. _

_Do you _want _to leave? _

As if to defy the voice, L hopped off his chair and shuffled to the window, pulling back the maroon drapes with an abrupt tug, his forefinger and thumb gripping a yellowed rope. Like the curtains of a miniature theatre, the cloth hastily folded in its midriff, revealing a sight worthy of the World's Three Greatest Detectives' eyes.

Or not. Tokyo was known for its genuine cleanliness (cleanliness is next to godliness, after all, L thought ironically), its streets kept by nightly watchmen. That wasn't what threw L off, though. It was the overall atmosphere of the city, or, at the very least, his view of it. Black, grey, and white buildings fought to the sky like the aftermath of Babylon, each one struggling to touch the heavens. The heavens didn't appear too welcoming; they were scattered with charcoal clouds and overcasts of musty silver. All in all, it wasn't a sight that gave him hope. Really, it did everything _but_ that. Half-heartedly, L decided he was better off in his cage and closed his view on the outside world, letting the curtains ebb back to the cool glass again.

As he was about to turn around, L heard soft clicks coming from his work area. The noise sounded very familiar to him. _It sounds like someone's on my—_

"Watari?" Had he returned without his knowledge?

No reply. Just more repetitive clicking.

This time, he almost ran back to his computer, hands stuffed into the deepest depths of his pockets. The second L's eyes locked with his monitor, though, the clicks ceased. The detective could care less about that, though. Someone (something) had tried tampering with his computer, maybe even his database or multiple hard drives, and L would have to try and tighten his security. Again. He drew a thumb to his mouth and began to push his bottom lip to his chin, his eyes narrowing. If someone had surpassed Watari's elaborate security system, the main hard drive should have destroyed itself. His computer was still intact, though, so maybe it hadn't been a hacker.

_Nonsense. Who else could have messed with it? _

L crouched on his chair, his eyes fixed intently on his screen, scanning it for abnormities. Everything was exactly how he left it: three browsers stacked up in the left-hand corner, first-hand evidence layered on the right. _Except…_ A tiny screen sat near the metal waste bin on the far right of his Mac's menu bar. Hesitant, L guided his cursor it and clicked the mouse twice. A Microsoft Word document popped up like Jack out of his spring-loaded box. On its pure white background, jumbles of words were typed in the standard Times New Roman font:

**ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho no he he he he he he he he he no ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha no bah ha ha ha ha no rah ha ha ha ha no no no no no mwah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha aha ha ha ha **

**found you l lawliet**

A chill ran up and down L's spine. The room temperature had dropped tenfold, raising goose bumps underneath his long-sleeved shirt. _Who the hell—_

Suddenly, a whiff of warmer air touched the base of his neck. He heard the jiggle of keys and the soft click of the door closing, which sounded much more pleasant than the clicks of his keyboard.

"Ryuzaki?"

L turned around to face his friend. Watari was balancing a large white box in his hands while trying to shove his keys back in their dark homestead.

"I'm sorry for the delay. The bakery had to make your cake on the spot because it was a custom order."

"As long as I am able to consume it, I'll accept your apology."

"Oh, yes, of course." Watari gave a little chuckle as he made his way over to L.

Momentarily, L forgot about the Word document, his attention solely fixed on the wonderful treat incased by that white box and his rumbling stomach. That didn't last long, though. The second Watari safely maneuvered the cake from the palm of his hand to the oak desk, the room became cloaked in darkness. Then the low-hanging light above them flickered weakly, slowly regaining its power back. At least the lighting was fine; L couldn't say the same for his computer. Its screen had gone as dark as his own hair and was now restarting itself.

"There must be a storm approaching," Watari commented from L's side. "I'll make sure to reroute your computer, so this doesn't happen in the future."

"Thank you."

Watari removed his hat, bowed slightly, and left the room. He returned moments later, a fork in his hand. "For your cake."

"Ah, yes." L thanked him again and wedged the fork between his finger and thumb. He just about didn't want to eat the cake, his mind still trying to wrap itself around that estranged Word document. He had a vague idea of _who _might have done that, but it was completely preposterous. Not to mention impossible.

_Perhaps cake will clear my mind…_

With his other hand, he lifted the white box's lid up, letting it fall above the cake with a whispered _thud_. That cold draft came into the room again, weaving its way in and out of his seemingly-thin clothing. Amongst white frosting, someone had fingered in:

**its me ha ha**

L grabbed the lid and slammed it shut, almost flattening the cake in the process. Not only was someone (something) toying with him; they were touching his _cake_, too. If it had been the bakery's doing, he'd boycott their sweets for an eternity. He could purchase his sugar high from somewhere else, thank you very much. There was only one way to prove his hypothesis, though. "Watari!"

No shorter than a millisecond later the older man strolled into the room. "Yes, Ryuzaki?"

"When you purchased this cake, did you notice any…strange markings on the top?"

"What do you mean?"

"Letters or words, perhaps?"

"No. Why? Is something wrong with it? Did they hand me the wrong one?"

"Perhaps." Unlikely, but it was a possibility.

"What _exactly _do you find unpleasant about the cake?"

L made a quick gesture to Watari, and his friend strode obediently to his side. Like a boy about to reveal his prized collection of rocks, L paused, his finger a companion to a hidden layer of cardboard, and then flipped the box open.

There was _nothing_. The icing had been smoothed over the cake, looking like a perfect, snowy wonderland, and no words disturbed its frosty surface. L's mouth suddenly dried up, a pool of heat rising in the pit of his stomach. They _had _been something there… Hadn't there? The detective was at least sixty percent sure.

"Ryuzaki?"

"Hm?"

"There's nothing wrong with it."

"Oh…yes." _Lies. There was something there, and you know it._

"Is something troubling you?"

"Nothing in particular," L said, articulating his words to a slow beat. He could feel Watari's doubtful look cast upon him. But the old man said nothing, simply shaking his head and walking back to his current job.

Before he left entirely, though, Watari called in a strained voice: "If you'd like to tell me something, I'll be in the far study."

L drew a thumb up to his mouth and bit it hard. If this really was what he thought it was, he'd need more evidence. So far, he deduced it could be one of two things: an apparition or a hallucination. In logical principles, both were beyond plausible; they were _laughable. _Though, hallucinating seemed like a better option. Apparitions, on the other hand, were quite a ridiculous matter.

_Kira's a ridiculous matter, and yet you seem to believe in him one hundred percent. _

_There is clear-cut evidence for Kira. I have yet to see any concrete proof of ghosts. _

_Ah, but you have. And you know it, too. You know it like you know the sun will rise tomorrow. Or like how Light Yagami's Kira. You barely have any evidence for that, and yet you still believe it's true. _

_True, it is a mere intuition I have, but—_

_You believe it, right?_

_Yes, but—_

_Then that's all you need. Same with ghosts; just _believe.

"_Hello, Lawliet."_ A voice, haunting and deep, drifted past his ear in a soft whisper.

Every cell in his body froze. In the mirror adjacent from the draped window where he had stood not twenty minutes ago, a familiar man stood behind L's own reflection. His disheveled hair was fixed similar to L's, but there was no mistaking the chance of him doubled in a reflection. And, by the looks of the burn marks scattered on his face, L had no doubt who it was.

Beyond Birthday.

"_For a second there, I bet you thought you lost me; but I found you." _

Whether he was actually a ghost or merely a figment of his imagination, Beyond _had_ found him. And, for the first time in his career, there was nothing the World's Greatest Detective could do about it.

* * *

**Author's**** Note**: The next theme is _36. Dreamer. _Feel free to give me your thoughts in the box below. Until next time! :)


	6. Dreamer

**Disclaimer****:** I do not own Death Note. Carry on, now.

* * *

**_"I _**_dreamed a dream in time gone by,  
When hope was high  
And life worth living._

_But the tigers come at night  
With their voices soft as thunder,  
As they tear your hope apart,  
As they turn your dream to shame._

_I had a dream my life would be  
So different from this hell I'm living,  
So different now from what it seemed.  
Now life has killed the dream I dreamed."_

- "I Dreamed a Dream" from _Les Miserables_

* * *

_36. Dreamer_

(Genre: Angst)

Man believes there is always a dream to pursue, a goal to reach, or an achievement to accomplish for every second of every day. He also believes nothing should jump out and choke his journey on that heavenly yellow-bricked road. And if a said someone _does _pop out like spring-loaded monkey, he must promptly beat the shit out of his obstacle until his path is clear again. Then, he may move forward. Perhaps collecting two hundred dollars when he passes Go.

Light Yagami was no stranger on Dream Avenue. He strolled its honey stones all hours of the day, hands stuffed in pockets as if someone had lined them with cement, sharp eyes focused dead on his utopia, his kingdom. It was so close, within a finger's touch—but the damned path kept scrolling beneath his feet. This only left him two options: stop running and let his feet catch on the road's underbelly or run until his dream swallows him whole. The latter was far more appealing; Light could never quit his mental race.

At least, not without a fight. He knew from the very beginning that he would have to hack his way down that sullen path, pulling and pushing corpses up and down its paled bricks, in order to complete his goal. He knew that his axe of a pen would be soaked in blood, his hands permanently colored a pinkish-red, and he would be left alone in a dark corridor of his mind, trying to wash his hands of guilt like the frantic Lady Macbeth.

But every bit of suffering he'd endure, every sacrifice he'd have to face, would be worth it—because he had a _dream._

* * *

"_Sorry, Ms. Fuji, but you did a very _bad _thing and you need to go to jail now." A pudgy hand grasps a Barbie doll and walks her up a kitchen chair, pumping her up and down in tiny jumps. One of her pink shoes dives to the floor, but the child doesn't seem to care. Shoes aren't a necessity in jail, anyway. _

_He forces the doll's legs up to an awkward ninety-degree angle and places her plastic bottom on the chair's flatten top. He then shifts on his legs, meeting the fashionable criminal eye-to-eye through wooden bars, and gives an approving smile. _

"_The warden's going to lock you up now. Any last words?" _

_A pause. Barbie's plastered smile never wavers. _

_Satisfied, the caramel-haired child produces a smaller figurine with a uniform painted on his muscled body. He walks him up the same way he had with Barbie, but he lands the warden on the sane side of the wooden barricade. "Swooosh—clink!" The figure's molded hand glides across the bars, making pitchy xylophone notes, and punches the last spindle with stiff fingers. _

"_Now, you might get out in ten years, but that's only if you're _really _good. That means you're polite to the rest of your inmates and eat that sucky cafeteria food and learn that what you did was wrong and that you should never _ever _do it again. Do you understand?" _

_If permanent smiling meant you understand, Barbie could have been the most understanding doll in the world. _

"_Good. The warden'll be back to take you to dinner in—"_

"Light!"

_The squeaky voice calls out his name a few more times before making its debut in the kitchen. Light doesn't move, knowing very well that if he ran away it would only make things get tangled. The brunet hates tangles, especially the ones in his hair. He can't imagine how bad a tangled situation could be. _

"_Light, what are you doing with Dolly? She's going to be late for her fashion show!" _

"_First of all," the seven-year-old begins, "her name is Ms. Fuji. Second of all, you need to name her something better." _

_Sayu balls her fists and glues them to her side. "It fits her well! Give her back to me _now_, or I'll go over there and take her myself!" _

"_Sorry, Sayu, but Ms. Fuji's in jail for another ten years. She does have one phone call a day, though. I suggest you use it wisely." _

"_No! That's not a jail; it's a chair!"_

"_Sayu, I know this may sound weird to you, but there's this thing called "imagination." All the smart kids are doing it." _

"_I know what imagunation is, Light! It's when you make up stuff you don't see." _

"_Yeah, and it allows me to put Ms. Fuji in jail. Case closed." _

_Sayu scrunches her tiny nose as if she's smells spoiled milk. "Why do you pick very weird places in your imagunation?_

"_Jails aren't weird places. They're real. I should know; Dad took me to one." _

"_Yeah, but I pick nice places, like bake shops or slumber parties. Jails are too mean and icky for Dolly's tastes." _

_Light folds his arm stubbornly across his chest. "Well, she's going to have to change her tastes because she's staying."_

"_Why did you put her in jail?" _

"_I caught her with her shirt off in public." _

"_She was in my room, and I was in the middle of changing her for her fashion show!" _

"_You should've dressed her before you left." _

_Her face turns pink, her eyes beginning to gloss. "I'm done with this. I'm going to get Daddy!" _

_Tangles, tangles hanging everywhere. They would bind him up, closing in on his throat, if he didn't do something soon. "No, Sayu! He's doing work! Here—uh, I'll knock her sentence down to twenty minutes!" _

_His sister turns around, a relieved look on her face. "You would?" _

"_Sure. You just have to wait another five minutes." _

"_Okay… Light, why is jail fun to you?" _

"_It's not fun to me, but I want to be a police officer like Dad when I grow up. Whether I like it or not, I'm going to have to punish some people. So, why not practice?"_

* * *

Light tried to cough, forcing air up his throat—but nothing would come. All he could feel were ropes wrapped around his heart, leaving his vital organ in a tangled mess.

The metaphorical sky encasing his yellow-bricked dream had been clear for such a long time, so long he might have opted to walk instead of run. But now, it was at its worst. The heavy rainfall pounding the yellow box warehouse mirrored the sheets of white thrashing on Dream Avenue. As oxygen fought its way to his cells, rain consumed every pore of his body. It came in hard slaps, jerking him around like leaves in a maelstrom. He could hear thunder rumble lowly in the distance, as if to protest his fight against the rainstorm.

_I'm not going to give up! I'm not finished yet! _I'm so goddamn close!

In the yellow box warehouse, Light gripped his chest and groaned, his eyes bulging out of their sockets. In his mind, however, he threw a hand out to his utopia, his fingers clenching rain pellets and musty air. His legs pumped underneath him like pistons as he gave one final try at his dream. Then without warning, his legs fell out from underneath him, his beacon of hope swallowed by the cold rain, and he felt the road flatten his body. And his dream.

He thought briefly about his life as whole, skimming through memories like bugs in an unclean pool.

_(I'm going to have to punish some people. So, why not practice?)_

_Practice, huh? Looks like I don't have time for that anymore._

* * *

Light would have wanted his grave's granite chiseled with this:

**Light Yagami **

**(Feburary 28, 1986—January 28, 2010)**

"_**Simply a dreamer."**_

But it's too dark and lonely for him to have a say in that now.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Hello, my lovely viewers! You know the drill: if you've got something to say, say it. Your opinion matters to me.

Please patiently wait for the next installment, _4. Rivalry! _


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